Paranoia
by Fahrenheit Sidhe
Summary: Paranoia was his armour. Perhaps, he should be more grateful for it. Post Advent Children (Rating subject to change.)


Paranoia was his armour, his shield. It was a blinding cuirass when all his other reflexes and training could no longer keep him afloat; perhaps, it was even the only thing that had kept him working as a Turk for so long. He dismissed the notion with a mouthful of brandy. The fiery liquid burned down the back of his throat and dulled his senses, and for once, he was grateful.

Ever thankful for his chair, Tseng eased himself back against it as he allowed his glass to slip from his fingers and settle gently on the end table with a small clink of the glass striking the wood. With a heavy sigh, his eyes flickered from the glass to the world beyond the window as he propped his chin up on his fist. Everything was dark beyond the crystal framed in wood, and he would have never had it another way. It was quieter, peaceful in a way that the sunlit world would never be able to attain.

Moments turned to minutes that turned into an hour before the director of the Turks finally stirred from his reverie. Tired gray eyes glanced at the clock before he huffed at the passage of time and downed the rest of his brandy. His nose wrinkled in disgust as the after taste fully hit him. With another disgruntled look at the clock face glaring back at him, he rose and stretched his aching arms above his head. Perhaps, he would be allowed to sleep the night through. Perhaps, Reno would leave him alone—rather, not create a drunken mess in some bar brawl that he would have to clean up in the morning. Perhaps, something right would happen for once.

Tseng snorted at his own train of thought as he methodically began to unbutton his work-issued shirt. His tie and jacket had been discarded the moment he had walked through his door, yet his gear and holsters had remained on him. Cursing, he stopped mid-movement to remove the firearms and straps from his person. He placed his two pistols side-by-side on the dresser in front of him, and the straps soon found themselves hung on the peg near the door. He certainly was distracted tonight if he had forgotten to remove his weapons once he returned to his safe house. He shook his head as if to clear it before removing the remainder of his clothing and wandering into his bathroom for a shower.

Warm water hit his skin, and a pleased sigh left his lips. His tense muscles were finally starting to relax after the long day. His eye lids drifted shut as he let all his other feelings fall away to remain solely focused on the droplets striking his skin repeatedly. He emerged from the steaming bathroom when the water had turned too cold for him to stand any longer with his long, dark hair sending drops of water to the floor at an alarming pace. If he had not been so distracted, he would have dried his hair more thoroughly; however, he was not in the mood to care anymore. He slid his closet door open and his pruned finger tips reached for the fabric of one of the many yukata he slept in. His fingers found a dark blue coloured one, and he tugged it deftly from the hanger and slipped it over his shoulders. He fished from one of his many sashes, successfully securing a black one, before tying it about his waist. He left the towel discarded on the floor and crawled into his bed, thankful for the warmth of the blankets and the softness of the mattress beneath him. Maybe he would sleep tonight. His eye lids lazily drifted closed after a few minutes of staring at the ceiling.

His paranoia had another plan for him. Had he locked his door properly? Did he leave the curtains in his living room open? Was his backup still tucked safely against the top of the mattress? Were his extra bullets still neatly held in his nightstand? Was that materia he wasn't supposed to have right next to them? Gray eyes opened again; this time, annoyance creased his brow.

The warm covers were discarded, and he dragged himself from his sanctuary. Habit dictated that he took one of his pistols from the dresser, and he did just that, arming it as his feet carried him to his bedroom door. He paused at his door long enough to draw a collecting breath before cracking it open to see into the world beyond his bedroom door. The room was reassuringly empty, but a nagging feeling soon flared up. Something was amiss. He casually allowed himself a wider view of the room before him as he worked up the courage to step beyond. He clung to the wall as he patiently made his way to the window. His gray eyes never missed a detail as he bridged the gap to the side of the curtain where he tugged it tightly closed over the window. The light flooding into the room was gone, but an uneasy feeling had replaced the nagging tugging in his mind. Was this just an effect of the alcohol? He wondered as he straightened up, and that was when he heard it: the distinct sound of footsteps. Those footsteps were far closer than he wanted them to be.

Mechanically, he retreated to his bedroom and silently slid the door closed and locked. His other firearm found its way into his holster, which he then secured to his thigh. His extra ammunition found its way into the pouch attached to his holster, and his bangle slipped easily onto his wrist. The long sleeves of his yukata hid it from view, and for that he was appreciative of his choice. It wasn't every day that he would actually have the jump on someone breaking and entering. He found his silencers on his gear belt and decided he had enough technology to keep himself out of trouble for at least on gun fight. He hid himself on the other side of his dresser and waited. Let them come; he had a way out and another place to hide as long as they did not catch him.

A cruel smile drifted onto his features as he heard the telltale sounds of a person fumbling with his lock. He secured the silencer and flicked the safety off. He raised his gun and aimed it right where the person's head should appear once they cleared the dresser. The lock disengaged with a soft click, and Tseng's nerves heightened as the desire for sleep whittled away.

Silver hair and green eyes filled his view, and the Turk hesitated in his shot as disbelief swept through him. The other was focused dead ahead at the bed where the Turk had been several minutes ago, and Tseng took the moment to completely pull himself behind the dresser before the other noticed him. How on _Gaia_ was _he_ here? Was Leviathan toying with him again? _Was he seeing things_?

Cautiously, Tseng peered about the dresser, and the silver-haired man was still there; however, this time, he found himself staring right back at those deep green pools lit by mako. Instinct kicked in, and his silenced pistol was aimed at Sephiroth as he slowly rose from his crouch. His foot falls were silent as he eased himself away from Sephiroth and towards his only form of escape if the man decided to lunge—provided he was fast enough to make it to that escape.

Sephiroth never moved, and neither man said a word. Green eyes callously studied the Wutain's movements while gray eyes narrowed in their observations. Tseng was tense all over while Sephiroth in contrast seemed far too relaxed for a man with a gun pointed in his direction. Was he _still_ that arrogant even after everything that happened?

Tseng was the first to break the silence. "How are you here?" His quiet voice demanded.

Tseng received a half-hearted shrug as his only answer as if Sephiroth hardly cared if the Turk understood the meaning of his presence. "Would it matter if I gave you a legitimate answer?" The ex-general's voice inquired smugly. "No matter what I say, you would never believe me let alone be willing to."

"I have heard and see far stranger things than the answer you're going to conjure," Tseng assured the man in a growl. "Answer the question."


End file.
